Chapter 22
Harper & Associates — Late Afternoon
Frances “Frannie” Smith believed in order.
Which was why the current state of the Harper & Associates reception area made her eye twitch.
Lucy Patel sat cross-legged in one of the waiting chairs, laptop open, one earbud dangling, the other unplugged so the tiny speakers could do their worst.
Deck O’Rourke leaned against the reception desk, drinking coffee that smelled suspiciously like it had been sitting on a burner since breakfast.
And they were talking at once.
Frannie lowered her reading glasses.
“Lucy.”
Lucy looked up.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“If you’re about to repeat another rumor from that internet nonsense, kindly remember this is a law office and not a gossip column.”
Lucy brightened.
“It’s not gossip. It’s a podcast.”
Frannie stared at her.
“That is decidedly not an improvement.”
Deck chuckled into his coffee.
“Let the girl talk, Frannie. She’s got the spirit of an investigator.”
Lucy beamed.
Frannie pointed a pen at him.
“Declan O’Rourke, do not encourage her.”
Lucy turned the laptop toward them, tugging the dangling earbud free so the sound filled the room.
“But listen to this.”
Deck sighed.
“I regret everything already.”
Lucy clicked play.
The host’s voice filled the reception area.
“Sources close to the investigation say Mercer development sites should be searched for evidence related to the disappearance of Caroline Simms—”
Deck nearly choked on his coffee.
“Oh for the love of—”
Frannie snapped her fingers.
“Declan.”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Lucy frowned.
“What were you about to say?”
Deck rubbed a hand over his beard.
“Something unfit for polite company.”
“Correct,” Frannie said.
Lucy leaned forward eagerly.
“But they’re saying the internet thinks Mercer buried her under one of his houses.”
Deck stared at her.
“The internet also believes Elvis runs a bait shop in Florida.”
Lucy shrugged.
“That thread actually had some decent mapping.”
Frannie groaned softly.
“Lord help us.”
Deck leaned toward the laptop.
“Let me see that.”
Lucy brightened.
“I thought you said internet detectives were dangerous.”
“They are,” Deck muttered. “But occasionally they stumble onto something useful.”
Frannie folded her arms.
“Eleanor is going to regret hiring both of you.”
Charleston had nearly chewed Eleanor up and spat her out once already. If Frannie could keep even one microphone at arm’s length this time, she would.
At that moment, Eleanor stepped out of her office carrying a folder.
“What am I going to regret?”
Lucy spun the laptop toward her.
“The Atlanta podcast says Mercer buried Caroline at a jobsite.”
“They don’t know that,” Eleanor said evenly.
“They’re trending, though,” Lucy said.
“God save us from people with microphones and too much free time,” Deck said.
“That’s exactly what they are,” Frannie agreed.
Eleanor set the folder on the desk.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
April:
Okay, tell me… did you call it quits, or did you wind up in the throes of wild reconciliation? I’m hoping for the latter. I want details.
Eleanor felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth.
Eleanor:
Later.
Another buzz.
April:
That means yes.
Eleanor slipped the phone into her pocket just as the office door opened.
Frannie looked up.
“Well now,” she said calmly.
David Mercer stood in the doorway.
Tall. Controlled. Carrying the kind of tension that said he’d spent the entire day listening to strangers decide who he was.
“You must be Mr. Mercer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lucy’s finger stabbed the mute button so hard the laptop shifted on the chair. The silence that followed was vacuum-sealed, pressing against the walls until the only sound left was the slow, mechanical tick of the clock behind Frannie’s desk.
Frannie gestured toward the hallway.
“Ms. Harper is expecting you.”
Deck leaned toward Lucy.
“Here we go.”
Lucy whispered back, “This is incredible.”
Frannie didn’t even look at them.
“If either of you says the word podcast in front of that man, I will personally throw you both out the window.”
Deck lifted his hands.
“I’m the picture of discretion.”
Lucy nodded.
“Same.”
Frannie stared at them. “I have seen your search history, Lucy. You wouldn't know discretion if it subpoenaed you.”
“I do not believe either of you.”
Eleanor stepped forward.
“Mr. Mercer.”
David’s gaze met hers. He didn’t look for a smile or a greeting. He looked for an anchor.
He looked like a man tired of being the only person in the room expected to prove he hadn’t used a shovel.
“Ms. Harper,” he said.
Her phone buzzed again in her pocket.
April, probably.
But when she glanced down, it wasn’t April.
A local news alert had already posted a photo of David Mercer walking into the Cotton Exchange Building. Someone had circled him in red. Someone else had circled her office door.
DAVID MERCER LAWYERS UP
The comments underneath were brutal.
of course he hired Eleanor Harper
she got one murderer off in Charleston and now she’s doing it again
#MercerMurderer
Wait, I thought the District Attorney was shagging the redhead? judge gentry’s daughter? Is this a love triangle or a cover-up?
#JusticeForCaroline
wonder what the district attorney thinks about his girlfriend defending David Mercer
One comment sat at the top, liked more than a thousand times.
Funny how Eleanor Harper always seems to end up defending men, women disappear around.
Eleanor locked the screen.
And just like that, the air in the reception area went cold. The gossip died. The podcast disappeared. There was only the lawyer, the client, and eight years of silence between them.